Like All Failed Experiments
by thisbloodycat
Summary: This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with the Chosen One turning into a flesh-eating monstrosity, and Pansy thinking introducing Draco to Muggle cinema may not have been the brightest of ideas, after all—but then, what does she know?


Let's get the apologies out of the way: I know there's some canon on zombies, but I chose to ignore it—please bear with me? :)

This was written for the prompt:

_When Potter comes back from the dead after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco is intrigued. And frankly, more than a bit concerned. He's learnt enough about Dark Creatures to know to fear things that were once dead, and something is definitely off about the looks Potter keeps giving him._

Which is, hilariously, my own prompt. I left that at a zombie fest what feels like decades (but was probably less than a year) ago, and then apparently decided I'd much rather write it myself.

A massive, enormous, GARGANTUAN thank you to Iwao, for beta-reading this for me and assuring me that I am not, in fact, fit to be declared insane (or at least not yet), and to everyone else who stood by me as I raved endlessly about this mad little plot bunny (plot zombie?) of mine. Thank you :) You guys are the best.

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><p>Draco never thought he'd come to appreciate Muggle-lovers and their asinine policies, and he certainly never imagined he'd be glad for Muggle Studies becoming mandatory.<p>

He hated that class. He hated it with a burning passion. It was boring, petty, and frankly, a bit of a joke all-around. How else could it be explained he'd been doing swimmingly in it so far? In spite of kipping through most of his lessons. In spite of pinching Pansy's notes just hours before his essays were due, for fuck's sake. And what was the point of it, anyway? Draco wasn't planning to move in with a family of Muggles anytime soon. Or ever.

It was entirely useless.

And yet, that morning, halfway through reading Potter's interview for the Prophet—purely in a know-thine-enemy sort of way—Draco couldn't find it in him to resent Muggle-lovers any longer. Over that particular issue, at least.

Okay, so he still resented them plenty, but right then, he was ridiculously grateful (imagine that!) he'd been forced to take up that stupid subject. If he hadn't, he would have missed all the signs: the way Potter had been stumbling about in a daze, almost as if a Flobberworm had taken up residence in his head; the way he'd stare unblinkingly at Draco from across the Great Hall, in that creepy fixed manner of his that never failed to give Draco shivers …

They were all there, and connecting the dots was easy enough when one knew what to look for.

But if Draco hadn't been forced to sit through Professor Khan's mind-numbing lectures on Muggle media—only matched in tediousness by Binns' attempts to explain the Giant Wars back in fifth year—he would have missed them. And if he had missed them, he'd be going about his life as usual, entirely unaware of the danger he was in. And if he had done that, he'd be …

Draco let the paper drop to his lap, his hands shooting out to grasp at the nearest solid object.

You'd be a sitting duck, that's what, his mind supplied helpfully.

"Pans," he said. He only realised he'd been holding his breath when he felt a bit light-headed on the exhale.

"Ow!" Pansy shook her arm in a futile attempt to dislodge his death grip on her wrist. "Let go, you beast! There are less painful ways to maim me."

"Sweet Salazar, Pans. Potter wants to eat my brains."

"What?" She looked up, blinking. "What is this about?"

"He's—it says so right here, look." Draco picked up the paper, flicking through the pages until he found that wretched article again. "See?" He held it up for her to read. "The boy who came back from the dead. He was dead. Dead, Pans. He doesn't look particularly dead now, does he?"

Pansy gazed across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table, where Potter sat, as usual, beside his two annoying sidekicks. He seemed wholly unconcerned by the attention, engrossed as he was in the process of stuffing his face—with about as much grace as a drunken troll, Draco noted.

"Well, no," Pansy said after a while. "But I still don't see what this has to do with—"

"He's obviously one of those things we saw in class." Draco threw a quick look around to make sure they weren't being overheard, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind. Still, he lowered his voice, leaning closer to her—speaking ill of the Saviour was severely frowned upon ever since he had, well, saved them all from certain doom and whatnot. "Those Muggle things. The dead ones that feed on brains."

"Zombies."

"Yes, exactly! Zombies."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You can stop worrying then. Zombies aren't even real, Draco."

"Of course they are. We saw them last week, remember? In that weird little box-shaped artefact with the moving pictures."

"And if memory serves, Khan also warned us not everything on television is real."

"I know that," Draco snapped. Merlin, what was up with her? Draco had seen the moving cartoons as well, he knew those weren't real. "But this is different. The program we saw them in, it had actual Muggles in it. Living, breathing Muggles." At least they had been at first, though most of them hadn't been that lucky by the time the ending credits rolled around.

"They were actors," Pansy said with a put-upon sigh. "They were just pretending to be dead."

"So? Surely Muggles wouldn't make a show about something like that if it weren't a real issue to them. Especially such a long one, it took us two classes to finish watching it."

"Give it up, Draco." She shook her head. "If you need an excuse for your obsession with Potter, just go with the usual ones: how he's an attention-seeking twit who's desperate to make the news, how he's the Ministry's darling—"

"I'm not—"

"—but zombies, really? That's just over the top, dear. We're not on the Wireless, there's no need to be so sensational."

"For Merlin's sake, I'm not being sensational about this!" Draco snarled. "And I'm not obsessed with Potter either."

"Could've fooled me," Pansy said briskly. "Besides," she added, "I have to admit he's rather fit these days."

Draco stared. All right, fine, so Potter sort of looked good of late. He no longer looked like a famine survivor. He was still lean, but … surprisingly hot, really, since the war—must have been all that running around hiding from Death Eaters; he probably got plenty of exercise.

But anyway, he was still—ugh—Potter , and Draco wasn't that desperate. He wasn't desperate in the slightest. And in any case, that wasn't what they'd been discussing, Pansy and him. What they'd been discussing was the likelihood of Potter having joined the ranks of the walking dead—which was, in Draco's opinion, extremely high.

"Pans, just listen to me, okay? I promise this makes sense," he said, refusing to be discouraged by Pansy's obvious lack of interest in his well-being. Honestly, some friends he had. "These zombies, they're like the non-magical version of Inferi. Muggles probably raise them using that neat electricity thing instead of magic." That had to be it. The reason they looked so different from Inferi. Muggles couldn't exactly use Necromancy, after all: their undead creatures were bound to look different when they were raised differently. "So of course their Inferi aren't exactly like ours, but that doesn't make them any less real."

Pansy gave him a very long look.

"Do you want to know what I think?" she said at last.

"What?"

"I think"—she turned back to her breakfast—"it's far too early for this nonsense."

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><p>Draco rolled up his essay on Grindelwald's defeat and its pivotal role in ending the Muggle war, and wondered idly if one could die out of sheer boredom. He'd been coming to the library almost everyday, hoping to find the time to research zombies so he could figure out how best to handle the Potter situation.<p>

Unfortunately, that hadn't happened yet.

He was much too busy trying to keep up with his homework. If only the Death Eaters had stuck to the bloody course syllabus during the previous year … but no, they had to go ahead and innovate, of all things.

Yes, Draco thought viciously, he could see how well that had worked out for them. He couldn't, however, remember the last time he'd gone flying, or had a drink with Pansy, or beaten Blaise in a game of wizard chess.

He finished gathering his things and cast a quick Tempus charm. If he hurried, he could still drop off his books at the dorm and make it to the Great Hall in time for dinner, so he grabbed his bag and left, heading downstairs to the dungeons. He'd only made it as far as the Charms classroom when he heard the clatter of rushed footsteps behind him.

"Draco!"

Draco cursed his luck, putting on a burst of speed. He'd been staying out of Potter's way ever since the Start-of-Term Feast, and so far Potter had gone along with it easily enough. To be honest, Draco quite liked their unspoken agreement of mutual avoidance. It worked. He'd been hoping it would last. Merlin, why did Potter have to ruin this for him as well? As if he had a right to, the arrogant prat.

And why was he calling Draco by his first name, anyway?

Perhaps Gryffindors were just naturally forgetful, perhaps Potter had bought into all that crap about interhouse cooperation McGonagall kept spouting—hell, perhaps he'd taken one too many curses to the head during the war, how was Draco supposed to know?

Or perhaps, Draco mused, Potter really was a zombie. Perhaps this was a ruse, an attempt to win Draco's trust. To make him into an easier target. But when had Potter ever been that cunning?

"Draco, wait up!"

Draco spun, ignoring the persistent knot of dread in his stomach. Somehow, he doubted this was the smartest course of action, but he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to remind Potter that the two of them were by no means, and had never been, on a first name basis.

"Potter," he said, deliberately stressing the word. "What do you want?"

"Er, I've been meaning to talk to—"

"So talk."

"Right. Okay. So … I was wondering, are you busy this Saturday?"

Draco stared at him. "That's really none of your business."

"Oh, for—it's not like I'm asking anything personal! I just want to know—"

"And I've told you," Draco said irritably, "it's none of your business."

"God, must you always be so—" Potter paused. He took a deep breath and said, "Look, it's just, you know how I need a N.E.W.T. in Potions and—the thing is, McGonagall thinks—"

Draco scowled, and wondered if he could get away with stunning Potter and leaving him there. At this rate, he was going to end up missing dinner altogether. Or he'd have to carry his books to the Great Hall with him, and then sit through another one of Pansy's rants ("For Merlin's sake, Draco, you used to be more fun than this! I liked you better before you started channelling Granger.").

Frankly, neither prospect sounded very appealing.

"—and I know I could just ask Hermione instead, but I thought—I think it could be good for us to, that is, I think I'd like it if—"

Draco stopped listening the moment he saw it. The smudge. A dark red smudge on Potter's face, right next to his mouth. And that shade of red. That particular shade of red Draco had seen enough of during the war. Merlin, it could only be …

"Blood," he breathed, and Potter finally stopped rambling. He tilted his head to the side instead, as if waiting for the rest of Draco's sentence.

"Sorry, what?" he said eventually.

"Blood, Potter. There's blood on your face."

"No, that can't be." Potter rubbed absently at his forehead. "It was supposed to stop after—"

"Not there. It's—it's—" Draco's hand was halfway to Potter's face when he caught himself. No way was he giving Potter a chance to bite off his fingers. "On your mouth. Just …"

Potter slid a finger across his lips and stared at it thoughtfully. And then—oh, fuck—then he licked it. Draco drew in a sharp breath. So it's true , he thought frantically. He really is one of those things.

"Relax," Potter said, chortling. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Draco took a step back and he, too, laughed, albeit a bit more hysterically. He couldn't help it. That was such a daft thing to say—Draco saw ghosts everyday, and he wasn't foolish enough to think they were dangerous. Such a daft thing to say. And stupid Potter was just standing there with his perfect lips—his perfect blood-stained lips. Oh fuck, he probably had fangs or something; did zombies have fangs? Draco wished he'd paid more attention in that class. And anyway, he really didn't want to think about Potter and his perfect lips because that way lay madness, and probably gruesome death, ever since Potter had become infected.

And, all right, maybe Draco was a bit hysterical. But really, who could blame him when Harry sodding Potter was planning to kill him? Or turn him. Whatever it was he had planned.

"Draco? It's just jam."

"Right." Draco nodded slowly. "Jam, of course." As if anyone would walk around with jam on their face just minutes before dinner. Jam was served at breakfast, for fuck's sake. Everyone knew that. What, did Potter think Draco was born yesterday?

Was that why he was targeting Draco?

"Draco?" Potter said, stepping looked worried. He was obviously trying to lull Draco into a false sense of security. Like a good predator. So Draco did the only reasonable thing he could think of.

He turned around and ran as fast as he could.


End file.
